


The First Thing You Do Is Set Up Your Mise

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2015 [17]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cooking, M/M, Post-Graduation, alternate occupations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 02:15:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5439683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, it was the smoke detector that made Jack’s decision for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The First Thing You Do Is Set Up Your Mise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DemonicSymphony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/gifts).



> Day 17 of the Advent Calendar Drabbles for 2015. Today's prompt is from demonicsymphony, who actually requested something like [Mise en Place](http://archiveofourown.org/works/896418), but with Jack/Bitty. Here's how I think it would happen.
> 
> For those who don't know, _mise en place_ is a French term meaning "everything in its place". Essentially, it's the idea that you have all of your ingredients and supplies set up and ready to go before you actually begin to cook.

Jack stared at the business card for a while.

 

In the end, it was the smoke detector that made Jack’s decision for him.

 

“Thank you for calling Bit O’Home Cooking,” said the cheerful, Southern-accented voice on the other end of the line.  “This is Eric speaking, can I help you?”

 

Jack let out a breath.  “I need to hire an in-home cook.”

 

*

 

“I can’t help but feel like I’m failing in some way,” Jack said to his mother over the phone. 

 

“Starvation would be failure,” said Alicia Zimmermann, ever the pragmatist.  “Hiring a cook when you’ve burned through three sets of pans is just common sense.” 

 

“How hard can it actually be?  I mean, it’s just _chicken_.”

 

“ _Cher_ ,” Alicia said, “it’s never _just_ chicken.”

 

*

 

Betty, the cook-for-hire, was due to come over the first time on Monday morning, which was fine with Jack, because he didn’t have practice until that afternoon.  It would give him a chance to talk to her, let her know his likes and dislikes, and give her a key to the apartment, since she’d be cooking while he was at practice most days.  It’d also give Betty a chance to see the kitchen and his pantry, and determine what extras she needed to purchase (on Jack’s account, of course).

 

There was a knock on his door promptly at 9:30, and Jack took one last look at the kitchen, hoping it would pass muster.  It was all right, as kitchens went – nice stove, French-door fridge, a bit skimpy on counter space but open to the rest of the apartment, and not closed off like a dirty secret. 

 

Hopefully, Betty would approve.  Or at the very least, not be so horrified that she ran screaming.

 

Jack opened the door and did a double take.

 

“Hi, I’m here from Bit o’Home,” said the cheerful young man.  He had big eyes and blond hair, and was about a cute as a button with a Southern accent to match.  He had two cloth bags already full of groceries slung over his arms, and was wearing a polo shirt with the company logo on one pocket.

 

Jack stared.  “You’re not Betty.”

 

The man’s eyes went wide.  “Oh, I’m so sorry, there must have been a mix-up.  I’m _Bitty_.  Well, Eric, Eric Bittle, everyone calls me Bitty.”  He paused.  “Um… can I come in?”

 

Jack stepped aside.  “Yeah, sorry, I must have heard wrong.  The kitchen’s—“

 

But Eric – Bitty – Bittle had already found the kitchen, and had hefted the bags on the counter.  “I went ahead and bought a few things – don’t worry, no charge to your account, just a way of saying welcome to the family.  You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

 

“Uh, no.”

 

“Good.”  Bittle was already fast at work, unpacking his bags.  Flour, sugar, butter, shortening, graham crackers, lemons.  “So you’ll be needing dinner five nights a week, is that right?  What about breakfasts?”

 

“I can cook eggs.”

 

“Oh, sure, but do you have time to shop for them?”  Strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, pecans, corn syrup.  “We’ve found that when your cook is already shopping for dinner, it’s pretty easy to add other things onto the list as you need – no extra charge, of course, provided we can get it at the same location.”

 

“Um, yeah, that’d be great,” said Jack, watching as Bittle continued to unpack the bags with dizzying speed.  The last things to emerge were a Pyrex pie plate and a large mixing bowl with a pastry cutter and measuring spoons rattling around inside.

 

“Now, the bowl and spoons are mine,” said Bittle.  “We do ask that you provide any cookware that we’ll need, within reason. I’ll look at what pots and pans you own soon – but generally speaking, we won’t ask that you spend any more than about $200 on supplies within a given year.  If you want to spend more than that, we’re happy to offer suggestions on what would be most useful, as well as what brands and styles we prefer.  The only exception is knives – our cooks _always_ supply their own knives.”

 

“Sounds a bit bloodthirsty,” said Jack, wondering how the hell Bittle had managed to make the dough that was rapidly forming in the mixing bowl.  Had Jack even _blinked_?

 

“A good knife is a chef’s best friend in the kitchen, Mr. Zimmermann,” said Bittle seriously.  “It’s as personal to a chef as a gun to a hunter, or a bow to an archer.  You could walk into another kitchen and pick one up and do all right – but you wouldn’t _want_ to.”

 

Bittle rolled out the dough on the counter into a large circle – where the hell did he find the rolling pin, Jack wondered.  He lifted it up, and began to press it gently into place in the pie plate, before sliding the entire thing into the fridge with a frown.

 

“Goodness,” he said, peering into the fridge.  “Why do you have so much ketchup?”

 

“I like ketchup,” said Jack defensively.

 

“Five bottles?”

 

“I like ketchup!”

 

“Hmm,” said Bittle dubiously, and closed the fridge.  “You said on the phone, you want a heart-healthy, protein-heavy diet, is that right?”

 

“I play hockey,” said Jack.  “I need to stay in shape.”

 

“So, lots of veggies, lean meats, that sort of thing?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Such as ketchup.”

 

Jack crossed his arms and resisted the urge to stick out his tongue, even if Bittle was washing the fruit at the sink and couldn’t see him.

 

“Wait,” said Jack, suddenly realizing.  “Are you the guy I talked to on the phone?”

 

Bittle didn’t answer for a moment, but that might have been because he was digging around in Jack’s cabinets, examining his cookware.

 

“Good quality,” he said, admiringly.  “A few years old, but top of the line when it was made, and very well maintained.  Family hand-me-downs, right?”

 

“My mom’s,” said Jack.  “She gave me hers so she’d have an excuse for new.”

 

“Mmm,” said Bittle, thoughtfully, and Jack wondered if chefs had the same attachment to cookware that they did their knives.  Maybe real cooks didn’t give up beloved pots and pans in exchange for shiny new ones, either?  “What brand?”

 

“Calphalon.”

 

Bittle nodded, satisfied, and the tense moment was over.  “Well, she clearly deserves it, the way she’s taken care of these.  I don’t think you’ll need to purchase much in the way of cookware, Mr. Zimmermann.  Though I’m a bit nervous about looking in your pantry, after seeing the contents of your fridge.”

 

“I promise you’ve already seen all the ketchup I own.”

 

“I’m more worried about how much mustard I’ll find,” said Bittle, fast at work stirring sugar into the fruit that was already bubbling away on the stove. 

 

“None.  I hate mustard.”

 

“Good to know.”  Bittle pulled the pie crust out of the fridge, poured the sugared fruit into it, and quickly began laying out the lattice top that Jack somehow had missed him making.  “Let me just get this in the oven, and then we’ll set to work on your likes and dislikes profile.  Any allergies?”

 

“None.  And I don’t have too many dislikes, either.”

 

“Good, I like a clean slate, I’m always looking for new recipes to try.”  Bittle slid the finished pie into the oven and stood up with a satisfied look on his face. 

 

Jack stared at the oven, and then at Bittle.  “Wait – you just walked in the door five minutes ago, and there’s already a pie in my oven?”

 

Bittle smiled.  “Now, Mr. Zimmermann, let’s go sit and go over this profile while that bakes.”

 

*

 

By the time they were done with the profile, the pie was done baking.  Bittle produced a tub of vanilla bean ice cream to eat with it; Jack had no idea where it’d come from and had already decided not to ask questions.

 

Also, the pie was _delicious_.

 

*

 

The first two weeks, Jack didn’t see Bittle at all. 

 

Every morning, he woke up, found the eggs Bittle purchased in the fridge, and fried them up, eating them with whatever fruit Bittle found that was in season, and some of the bread that Bittle baked.  (“Store-bought is terrible for you, so many preservatives,” said Bittle.  “Mine is much better.”)

 

If Jack was running low on something and actually noticed, he made sure to note it on the Bit o’Home magnetic notepad on his fridge, before grabbing the lunch that Eric had pre-packed for him and heading out the door to practice.

 

The lunches were always delicious.  Fresh sandwiches, home-made cookies, pasta salads, fruit compotes.

 

The other guys on the team started asking for Bittle’s business card.  Jack almost didn’t give it to them out of sheer possessive jealousy – if Bittle started cooking for _them_ , he might not have time to cook for _Jack_ – but reason ruled the day.  Bittle already worked for Jack; he couldn’t possibly cook for everyone, and surely the company had more people hired than just him.

 

Jack would get home after six, long after Bittle had left for the day.  The apartment always smelled fantastic, and the first few days, Jack stood in his foyer, just breathing in the scent, because that way it was easier to pretend he wasn’t coming home to an empty apartment at all.

 

He’d find dinner waiting for him in the fridge, neatly wrapped and with instructions on how to reheat properly, and a little tally card asking him to rate the meal.  It was always exactly right, and afterwards, Jack would give everything the highest marks possible.

 

On the Tuesday of the third week, Jack came home, his stomach already rumbling after a hard practice, eagerly anticipating what Bittle would have made for him that day.

 

He opened the door to the smell of onions and garlic and tomatoes, and heard Bittle singing in the kitchen.

 

For a moment, Jack’s heart was full and happy, and for the first time since moving to Providence, Jack didn’t have to pretend to feel like he was _home_.

 

Jack held his breath; Bittle continued to sing, as if he hadn’t heard Jack’s key in the door, and Jack quietly slipped inside, closed the door behind him, careful not to make a sound.  He toed off his shoes and padded into the kitchen, and watched for a few minutes as Bittle leaned over to look into the oven at whatever was baking inside.

 

And if Jack admired the view… well.  Couldn’t really blame him _too_ much.

 

“Oh!” cried Bittle as he stood up.  “Sorry – oh, goodness, I – Mr. Zimmermann!  You’re home early, and here I am thinking I’d lost track of the time.”

 

“Sorry,” said Jack.

 

“Hardly your fault, no need to apologize,” said Bittle, waving it away.

 

“I’m Canadian, I can’t help it.”

 

“Just as well you’re here – I know I probably should have asked first, but I’ve spent some of your $200, Mr. Zimmermann.  I noticed all the pizza boxes in your recycling box, so I decided you really need a pizza stone – I make a great pizza crust on one, but the only trouble is you really do need to preheat it for an hour beforehand, and I didn’t want to leave your oven on if you weren’t home.”

 

Jack noticed the sauce on the stovetop.  “Homemade sauce too?”

 

“Of course,” said Bittle.  “Everything’s ready for you to assemble the pie before you slide it in – I’ll just make a few notes on what you need to do—“

 

“Stay,” blurted out Jack, and then blushed when Bittle stared at him.  “I mean… if you can.  If you’d like.  If you don’t have any other clients.”

 

“I… I’d like that,” said Bittle, stammering a bit, a blush rising to his cheeks. 

 

“Good,” said Jack, and they stood smiling and blushing at each other for a few minutes, before Jack fled to the back to shower and change.

 

*

 

By the time Jack came back from his shower, Bittle had the pizza crusts ready and waiting on the counter.

 

“Here,” he said, and handed Jack a spoon.  “I’ll do one pie, and you can do the other, and then we can decide who does it best.”

 

“Oh,” said Jack, eyes going wide and his mind going to a very nice place that definitely didn’t involve pizza crusts.  “I… uh….”

 

“It’s _pizza_ , Mr. Zimmermann,” said Bittle, smiling and shaking the spoon at him.  “It’s not rocket science.”

 

 _Or the bedroom_ , thought Jack.

 

But he _said_ , “Or hockey,” and took the spoon to start ladling sauce on his pizza crust. 

 

Bittle laughed as he worked on his own crust, next to Jack.  “You hit the puck with the stick, it can’t be that hard.”

 

“It is when you’ve got six guys on the other side wanting to check you into the boards.  At the same time.”

 

Bittle shuddered a bit.  “Lucky for me my high school league was no-contact.”

 

Jack stopped laying out onions to glance at him, surprised.  “You played hockey?  But you’re—“

 

“Short, I know,” said Bittle wryly.  “Only in hockey.  I’m tall for figure skating.”

 

“What, the jumping and the sequins?”

 

“Don’t forget the feathers,” said Bittle.  “Anyway, I stopped figure skating when I was fourteen, and I wasn’t a good enough hockey player for a scholarship, let _alone_ the NHL, so…”  Bittle shrugged.  “Cheaper to start Bit o’Home than college.  So here I am.”

 

Jack stared at him.  “Wait – _Bit_ o’Home?  Bit as in Bittle?  You own the company?”

 

“Oh, not outright, exactly – my parents and grandparents helped with the start-up,” said Bittle.  “But it’s mine, really.”

 

“But you can’t be the only cook,” said Jack stubbornly.

 

“I think I’m done,” said Eric, stepping back to admire his pizza.  Fresh mozzarella, large leaves of basil, mounds of oil-drenched garlic with red onions, pepperoni, red peppers, and even a fresh egg on top. 

 

Even unbaked, it was straight out of a photo shoot.

 

“I’m eating yours,” said Jack, and Eric looked at Jack’s pizza with a raised eyebrow. 

 

The sauce was unevenly spread, the cheese was a heaping mound in the center of the crust, and pepperoni was clumped and scattered unappetizingly as if ready to scale the mountain of cheese.

 

“Hold on,” said Bittle, and did… _something_. 

 

Half a minute later, Jack’s pizza actually looked like something he would have wanted to eat.

 

“How did you _do_ that?” asked Jack, amazed.

 

“Ten minutes,” said Bittle as he slid the pies into the oven.  “Just enough time to wash up.”

 

The kitchen was spotless when the timer went off, and the pizzas came out of the oven, golden brown on the edges, cheese melted perfectly in the center.  Before he even knew it, Bittle had sliced them, set them on the mostly unused kitchen table, which he’d already instructed Jack to set with plates, forks, napkins, and the beer Jack hadn’t realized had been in his fridge.

 

“One of each for both of us,” said Bittle, handing Jack a plate laden with pizza.  “And don’t be afraid to say if you don’t like mine, it won’t hurt my feelings a bit.”

 

Jack took a bite.

 

Jack chewed.

 

Jack swallowed.

 

“Well?” asked Bittle.

 

Jack leaned over.

 

And Jack kissed him.

 

When he pulled away, the pizza was cold, and Bittle’s eyes were shining.

 

“I guess you liked it, Mr. Zimmermann,” said Bittle.

 

“Call me Jack,” said Jack.

 

And this time… Bittle kissed back.

 

 


End file.
